by James Oswald
‘We need to end this, which means we need to go public. Only every time you’ve tried to do that, Roger’s shut it all down. He’s got my name tarred so badly no one will believe a word I say, but you’re his daughter—’
‘Stepdaughter. Not even sure I want to be called that.’
‘Yeah. Sorry. I can understand. Well, a bit. Still, as far as the world’s concerned, you’re his daughter. Use that while you can.’
‘So, what? I phone up the BBC and say I want to talk to the news desk? Could they just broadcast my allegations on the morning news?’ She shakes her head in despair. ‘Didn’t work out so well for Steve Benson, did it?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Allegations won’t cut it. Not your word against his. He’ll just pay a couple of doctors to section you. Maybe I’ll tell you about Great Aunt Chastity some day, but the short version is it’s not a good idea to let them think you’re even slightly mentally ill. They’ll lock you up in a private asylum and that’ll be the end of it. But if you’ve got the pictures and video, it becomes that much harder for them to sweep it all under the carpet.’
We keep on walking, getting closer and closer to my flat. I’m not going back there, probably won’t ever go back there except to give Mrs Feltham the biggest hug I can manage, but there’s a little hipster café on the corner of Elmstead Road that will be just perfect for breakfast. I’m hoping that Charlotte thinks so too, or at the worst, Ben.
Food never tasted so good, even if it’s mostly pastries washed down with strong black coffee. For all her skinny frame, Izzy has quite an appetite, and I’m happy enough to feed it. Pete’s roll of notes won’t last for ever, but if this plan doesn’t work out there’s enough for two tickets to Dundee. We’ll just have to wing it from there. I don’t mention to Izzy the possibility of going back to Burntwoods though; it’s clear from her earlier talk that she doesn’t much like the place, and I’m inclined to agree with her. Very much a last resort.
‘We need to take the fight to them.’
I’d been thinking much the same thing, but it’s Izzy who says it.
‘How, though? I mean, I told Kathryn to send your email, but as far as I can tell it’s had no effect.’
Izzy frowns at me. ‘Kathryn . . . ? Oh God, yes. Good old Kat. She did what she was told, but they somehow managed to intercept all of the messages. Christ, I don’t know how far their surveillance reaches but it’s fucking terrifying how much they know. The way Blondie – what did you say his real name was? Adrian? – the way he gloated about how they’d tracked down and destroyed all the copies of those photos. Those videos.’ She shakes her head again. ‘Part of me’s glad. In a way. You know what I mean? That’s me in those pictures. Those men . . .’
I reach out across the table and place my hand over hers. I can feel the tension running through her, but I can’t imagine the thoughts that are leading to it. I’ve seen a few photos, watched a few videos that make me wish mind bleach were a thing. She’s lived through it.
We sit there for a little while, and I’m happy just to give her the time. Poor girl, I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for her before. Then the little bell above the front door tings the arrival of another customer. I look up and see a familiar face come in.
‘Charlotte.’ I speak the word quietly, to Izzy only. She looks around to see her sister – half-sister – approach the counter. Charlotte hasn’t seen us sitting near the back of the café, and she appears too distracted to notice anything much. I’m half concentrating on the door, looking through the window to see if she’s been followed, but she seems to be alone. No Ben with her today either, the lazy sod.
She’s ordered her coffee and is waiting for it to be made when I finally stand, step quickly over to her. When I say ‘Char’, she almost jumps out of her skin, whirling around, eyes wide.
‘Connie. What are you doing . . . ?’ She focuses past my shoulder, then rushes past. ‘Izzy! Oh my God!’
The hug is shorter and stiffer than I might have expected, given Charlotte’s earlier concerns. Or maybe my view is coloured by my greater knowledge of the situation. I stand back and observe the two of them together, only approach when Charlotte’s coffee is ready.
‘We were kind of hoping you might drop in. Not quite sure how else I was going to get in touch.’
Charlotte raises an eyebrow at this. ‘Erm, you’ve got my phone number, right?’ She sees the look Izzy and I can’t help exchanging. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Have you noticed anything strange happening the past few days?’ I ask.
Charlotte shakes her head. ‘Not especially, no. Well, Ben didn’t come home last night, but he’s probably gone out on the piss with some of the lads from the office. Not the first time, won’t be the last.’
A chill runs through me at her words. For her own part, Charlotte seems completely unfazed by the temporary disappearance of her boyfriend, but then she always was the epitome of self-absorption.
‘What about your father? Have you spoken to him recently?’
‘Daddy?’ Charlotte manages to make the word sound utterly innocent and lovely, but beside her I see Izzy tense. ‘Not for a week or so. He’s always so busy.’ She looks at her half-sister. ‘He told me you’d gone off to the Continent with a school friend and not to worry myself about you. How come you’re here? And why do you look like you’ve been sleeping in those clothes for a week?’
I ignore her idiot questions, it’s always the best way to deal with Charlotte. ‘You’ve got his number though, right?’
‘Of course.’ Charlotte takes out her phone, swipes the screen awake. ‘You want me to call him now? What’s this about, Connie?’
I take the phone from her unresisting hand, navigate to the contacts and hit the personal mobile number for ‘Daddy’. I know what to do now. Izzy’s right. It’s time to take the fight to the enemy.
The call rings a half-dozen times, and I’m sure it’s about to go to voicemail. I’m all set to leave a message, even if I’m not quite sure what I’m going to say, when the line clicks open.
‘Charlotte, dear. What have I told you about phoning me while I’m at work?’
I can hear the background thrum of a car’s engine, so it would seem they haven’t recovered the Bentley yet. What surprises me more though is the tone of Roger DeVilliers’ voice. It’s not that I wasn’t expecting him to answer; that was kind of the whole point in calling him on his personal number. It’s the edge of tenderness in his chastisement of his daughter – his true daughter. The mental disconnect between how he treats Charlotte and how he has treated Izzy is too wide for me to begin to comprehend. But then I can’t fathom how someone can find sexual gratification in the abuse of a minor either.
‘Charlotte’s busy right now, Mr DeVilliers. She let me borrow her phone though, so I could have a quick word.’
As expected, the line goes mute for a while, and I can imagine DeVilliers shouting instructions to whoever is with him. Adrian, probably. Maybe Tommy too, if I didn’t hurt him too much. I’ve got an eye on my watch as I speak, but in truth I’ve no idea how quickly they can triangulate this location from the call. Hopefully they’ll assume I’m at Charlotte’s house.
‘Miss Fairchild. I’m surprised to hear from you. I’d have thought you’d be busy fleeing the country right now. What with the arrest warrant out for you and everything.’
I don’t rise to the bait. ‘Nice try, Roger. You’re the one going to prison, not me.’
‘Really? And how do you suppose that will happen?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Video and photographic evidence of your sick abuse, the sworn testimony of one of the victims. That sort of thing.’
DeVilliers lets out a low chuckle, as I was sure he would. Across the table from me, Charlotte’s face is a picture of confusion, but then she’s only getting one side of the conversation.
‘Tell me, Miss Fa
irchild. Have you spent much time with your half-sister? Oh yes. I know about that. Your father’s betrayal of his oldest friend. It’s no surprise Isobel is the way she is, given her family history. The girl is quite clearly mentally challenged. I’ve psychiatric reports from several very eminent doctors. No jury will take seriously anything she says about me.’
‘Isobel is fine, despite your depraved attentions. I think she will make a very compelling witness in your trial. And we have the photographs, the videos. I think you’ll have a hard time playing them down.’
DeVilliers sighs down the phone as if my threats are more tiresome than anything to be taken seriously. ‘If you’re referring to the photographs on the laptop we found in your aunt’s car, then I don’t think you have them at all, do you? And I’d hate to think what would happen to poor sweet Felicity if the police were to find out what she had in her possession. Who knew the dear old lady had such unsavoury interests?’
‘Nice try, Roger, but it won’t wash. Threatening me and my family just confirms to me what a depraved monster you are. We still have a copy of those pictures in a secure cloud storage account. You could search for a thousand years and you’d never find it.’
‘And what of it? These photographs, the video footage. I’ve not seen it myself, but I’m told it is only the girls who can be seen. You have no idea who is doing anything to them.’ I can hear the edge of panic in his voice now, and it gives me a tiny thrill.
‘Have you heard of vein pattern analysis, Mr DeVilliers? It’s something they’ve developed up in Scotland. Quite fascinating, really. And just as revealing as a fingerprint. All you need is a clear image of the back of someone’s hand, say. Or an erect penis. Actually, even a flaccid one will do.’
The phone goes silent again, and I check quickly to see he hasn’t hung up. It’s only muted, no doubt while he speaks to his henchmen. My last barb was probably going a bit too far. It’s true though.
‘Let me tell you how this is going to go, Miss Fairchild.’ DeVilliers comes back on the line, his voice strained as if he’s trying hard not to shout. ‘You will bring Isobel to me. You’ll bring the web address for the so-called evidence you have too, along with any passcode needed to access it. Once any images are destroyed, you will walk to the nearest police station and hand yourself in. Isobel will come with me, and as long as she behaves, I’ll see to it that no one else in your family suffers unduly from your criminal misbehaviour.’
Charlotte’s phone pings at me to say a text has arrived. I ignore it, chilled by the cold malice in Roger DeVilliers’ tone.
‘Why on earth would I do a thing like that? Why would Izzy?’
‘Adrian has just texted you a photograph, Miss Fairchild. Have a look at it. Closely. I think you’ll find my demands aren’t all that unreasonable. You have half an hour.’
He hangs up this time, and I flick through the menus on Charlotte’s phone until I find the text. The photograph fills the large screen in all-too-high definition, and Charlotte gasps as she peers at it over my shoulder.
‘Benno!’
My brother stares back at me from the screen. His eyes are wide with fear, his hands tied behind his back. But it’s the hunting knife, big enough to gut an elephant, and held to his throat that makes my blood run cold.
45
My brother and I had a love–hate relationship growing up. He’s a few years younger than me, and had all of the attention lavished on him from the moment he was born. I was old enough to notice this, but not old enough to know why. It was only later that I realised both that he was the male heir my father longed for, and that this wasn’t Benevolence’s fault. Despite a lifetime of conditioning in the Fairchild way, he actually grew up to be rather fair-minded. A bit spoiled, yes, perhaps feckless too, but hard-working when he finds the right motivation. He’s my brother though, so I cut him more slack than I would most.
Even if I hated him as much as I hate my father, I’d still shudder at the image on Charlotte’s phone.
‘What the hell’s going on, Connie? What is this?’ She tries to take the handset from me, but I pull it away. Now’s not the time for emotional reactions. We need to bring cold logic to this problem.
‘Your father’s not the man you thought he was, Charlotte. I’m sure if you ask her, Izzy will tell you exactly how little you know him, but right now I need to think.’
‘What did he say?’ Izzy asks, and I realise neither of them heard the other side of the conversation. I outline Roger DeVilliers’ demands as swiftly and succinctly as I can, knowing it’s just going to make Charlotte even more confused.
Izzy takes all of ten seconds to digest the information before saying exactly what I knew she would. ‘I’ll go back.’
‘Like fuck you will. I didn’t risk my life dragging you out of that place just so he could get away with it. And I’m damned if I’m going to prison for him either.’
‘Prison? But you’ve not done anything wrong.’ Charlotte’s mouth drops open slightly, and then she raises her hands to her face as something dawns in her pretty blonde head. ‘Oh my God. This is all my fault. If I’d not asked you to look for Izzy then none of this would have happened.’
I want to take her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, only it would take too long. Years, probably. ‘No, Charlotte. It’s not your fault. This goes back way further than that.’
I expect more of an argument from her, but instead she just lets out a very quiet ‘Oh’ and then falls silent.
‘So what are we going to do, then?’ Izzy asks. ‘You any idea where they’re holding him?’
‘I’d expect the same place they had you. Don’t think I’ll get away with another rescue attempt though.’ I’ve still got David’s security card, but I expect it will be disabled by now. Or worse, they’ll have set it up to let me in but not out again. ‘No. I think it’s best if we get them to bring him to us.’
‘You think they’ll do that?’
‘If we agree to their terms. But only to get them onto neutral ground. We’re not letting anyone get away with this.’ I see Izzy’s confusion, Charlotte’s face beyond even that. Not for the first time, I wish I had a friend I could call on, but pretty much everyone I know in the Met will think I’m a crook, and the only other person I can think of is two hundred miles away in Birmingham. She might be able to help though. And I think I know just the place to set up the handover.
‘Charlotte. I need you to do something for me.’
She takes a moment to understand I’m talking to her now. ‘You do? What?’
‘First off, I need you to give Izzy any spare cash you’ve got. A credit card and PIN number would be good too. We promise not to bankrupt you.’
Charlotte has a good line in puzzled frowns, but she digs a slim leather purse out of her large handbag, pulls out a couple of cards and studies them for a moment. ‘I think this one’s got the most credit on it.’ She hands it to Izzy, reciting the number twice so she doesn’t forget it, then counts out a couple of hundred pounds in crisp, straight-out-of-the-bank-machine twenty-pound notes.
‘I can get more, if you need it.’ She hands them to Izzy as if they’re nothing. How the other half live.
‘Hopefully we won’t need it, or the card. They’re just a backup. Thanks, Char. Now there’s one more thing.’
‘There is?’
‘Yes. I need you to go home. Not up the road home, but Harston Magna. I don’t care how you do it, but get your mum away from there. Take her to a health spa or a holiday break somewhere. Whatever you do, wherever you go, you need to be out of communication for at least a couple of days. More would be better.’
For once she doesn’t argue. Just nods at me as if the full enormity of what’s going on has finally sunk in. She gives me an apologetic smile, leans close and pats me on the arm.
‘You be careful, Con.’ She reaches for the phone, but I shake my he
ad.
‘Sorry, Char. I’m going to need this too. And the passcode.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s the same as the card. My birthday and month. Never was good with numbers.’
Both of us sit in silence for a while after Charlotte leaves. Izzy toys with her coffee, the half-eaten pastry no longer appetising. I can’t help but stare at the image of my brother, the fear in his eyes.
And then my training starts to take over.
I ignore his face, look at the other details. He’s dressed much the same way as when I last saw him, a crumpled jacket over a shirt with no tie. He’s sitting on an office chair, hands behind his back so I assume tied. They’ve not gagged him, and the fact there’s not even a rag dangling around his neck suggests to me he’s somewhere that shouting for help will do him no good. The photo’s cropped too close for me to see much of the background. A bit of dark-grey wall that is almost certainly the same concrete basement where they were holding Izzy. I need to find a way of getting them onto my ground; there’s no way I’m going onto theirs. If only I had any ground I could call my own.
Something’s bothering me about the photo, and for a long time I can’t work out what. There’s a clue in there I should be seeing, but there’s nothing visual I’ve not already noticed and discarded. Then it dawns on me. The photograph pinged onto Charlotte’s phone while I was talking to Roger DeVilliers. It wasn’t taken by him, and wasn’t sent by him. It was sent by Adrian, and that’s almost certainly his hand holding the knife.
‘I think I might have an idea.’ I thumb and swipe at the screen, confused by the operating system of Charlotte’s unnecessarily expensive smartphone.
‘What are you trying to do?’ Izzy asks.
‘Find the number of whoever texted me that image.’
‘Here.’ She reaches out, takes the phone off me and in seconds has the details I need. Bloody teenagers. ‘Why’s it important?’
‘A couple of reasons. First, that’s Adrian’s number. You know, Blondie? We can speak to him independently of your . . .’ I stop myself. ‘Independently of Roger DeVilliers.’
